


Down 'Til the Dark

by taxevasion (stardustardie)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Hanzo Shimada Needs a Friend, Hanzo Shimada is a Kinda Pretentious, Reader is Pretty Shameless, Traceur Reader, this'll be a ten-parter if all goes well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 04:39:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18381137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardustardie/pseuds/taxevasion
Summary: A story about a man displaced, left only with his bitterness and his regrets and his only ties to his home and past being incense and atonement.And then there’s you. You’re there, too.You’re a chill traceur with the heart of a combat medic and the soul of an early 21st-century memer.





	1. look him right in the eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about trains, Hanamura, or Hanzo Shimada. Is that going to stop me? Probably not!

When your eyes lit on the man on the train, the moon crested high over Hanamura and a little voice in your head whispered, _him. He’s something special._

Your strong suit had never been subtlety, and so you didn’t bother to hide your curious perusal of his features. And, anyway, the casual distance in your expression was as much a deterrent of suspicion as anything else - there was nothing else in the otherwise empty train to look at, and you had to occupy yourself somehow, right?

Either way, the sharpness of the man’s cheekbones and the way his brows slanted severely over eyes darkened by midnight shadow was intriguing, and led you to glance over the rest of his attire. Huh. Ordinarily, you’d have found the absolutely ridiculous cut of his shirt to be absolutely hilarious - like Deanna Troi from that retro Star Trek show, only half-sleeveless and much, _much_ worse - but, sensibly, you refrained from laughing aloud.

Not that there was any real reason to laugh - you recalled just enough of your cultural knowledge and made note of the item tucked to his side just quickly enough to say aloud,

_“Kyudo-gi?”_

He startled. He didn’t _startle_ , but his frame jerked up ever so slightly and you found yourself on the receiving end of the iciest Kubrick stare ever. His expression did not speak of surprise that there was another person with him, taking public transit in this area of the city and at this time of night. It spoke of wariness, warning and the barest hint of surprise that you, the other person with him, had the audacity to strike up a conversation with him.

So you laughed, soft. waved a hand to push aside his social obligations, making it clear that you were speaking for _your_ sake and he didn’t owe you a single response.

“That’s what it’s called, right?” Your English rolled out of your mouth more easily than the Japanese; though you’d decided to come live in Hanamura, you had failed to acquaint yourself with the language apart from the basics and a couple of bonus words. _“Kyudo-gi_. That’s the, ah, archer outfit? I wouldn’t know for sure, I’m still learning. Either way, nice kit.”

Maybe it was a little insensitive for you to begin a conversation in his native tongue, and then suddenly switch to your own. You had, after all, no clue whether or not he understood English, let alone spoke it. But your words hung in the air for a minute, two minutes, going on three; they demanded some sort of response, as much as you hadn’t intended them to.

The man with the hawklike features - now stubbornly turned towards a point somewhere in front of his face - seemed to weigh his options. Respond, or don’t. One would mark him an outlier, draw attention to his rude refusal to acknowledge the lingual effort, the casual praise of his bow; the other was inconvenient, but expected. He seemed to sort out quickly enough which option was which, and before the third minute passed you by - before your question left his memory - he let out the softest huff through his nose.

“Yes. it is.” A voice calm and measured and clinical, raspy with sleeplessness or stress or grief - but a voice that only lent itself to an almost criminally brief answer.

Ah.

 _Disappointment.jpeg_ , you thought fleetingly, though you respected his apparent bilingualism. You didn’t want to stop talking; something in you recoiled at the notion of letting this man - with the low, lovely voice and the intriguingly aware eyes - get away with only three words spoken. So you didn’t. You adjusted your position against the window and you rolled your shoulders to relieve some tension, and you breathed out slowly as if barely remembering an important topic.

“Well, Mr. _Kyudo-gi_ , I don’t know what an archer would have to do in these parts of the city, but be careful on your way off this thing. I don’t know anything about it, really, I’m so new, but everyone talks about the yakuza’s hold on this area. One clan’s even got a castle right around, you know? Yeah, it’s the, ah… _Sakana_ clan’s? No, wait. _Shinobi._ No. Point is, take care of yourself, whatever you’re doing. This half of Hanamura’s supposed to be crazy dangerous at night.”

It was a lot to say, and he bore it impassively. You accepted the silence this time, though - honestly, with as much uncertainty as your warning was underscored with, you’d tune yourself out, too. Especially, you mused wryly, since despite telling a man with a weapon - archaic as it was - that he shouldn’t be wandering this part of town at night, you yourself were out here alone with no visible protection, it must have raised questions on his part.

The man on the train surprised you yet again, though, and you decided you were quickly growing fond of him.

“Thank you,” he said, noncommittal, as if his response was born of a desire to shut you up and not out of gratitude for your concern about his well-being.

You recognized the near-caginess in the line of his shoulders, the aloof air about him, the way he was desperately trying to avoid interaction without looking desperate or too suspicious.

And you thought it was something very special, really. Too bad you had buildings to climb.

“Well,” you said at length, as the train reached its next stop at a likely just-as-deserted station, “This is me. Thanks for keeping me company, man – I know it wasn’t really your choice, but it was cool. If you see me around again, climbing things I shouldn’t be, please don’t call the cops. Thanks.”

It was under quickly-shifting cloud cover that occasionally broke to show off a sky dull with light pollution that you stood and took your leave from that train.

You’d gotten on the train with only your wanderlust and a pair of parkour sneakers hanging around your neck.

You stepped onto the empty station with mysterious perhaps-archers and reticent, raspy voices on your mind.

Then, like an aftershock, you remembered the right name for the yakuza clan whose domain you stood in.

“ _Shimada_ clan!” you exclaimed to yourself. “Shimada _Castle_. Man, I’m dumb.”

Speaking of which, you really had to go sneaking onto those grounds once or twice one of these days.

You were, after all, set on having the _full_ Hanamura experience.

 


	2. ramen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of all the people to find at a ramen shop...

If anyone would ask you about it later, you would call it serendipity. He, on the other hand, probably did not see your reunion in such a pleasant light.

Now, a few days had passed since your not-conversation on the midnight train, and your run-in with the man with the bow. Though you’d been able to push it from your mind the instant you’d laced on your Feiyues and began scaling the nearest apartment building, you knew deep down that you could _never_ forget eyes like that.

And the cheekbones. _Lord_ , those cheekbones. You could pick those out of a lineup even half-blind.

So it was difficult to hide your surprise when you found the very man sitting in a corner table at a humble ramen shop, jacket collar pulled up and face turned away from the few other clientele. Sure, the guy was obviously human and needed to eat from time to time, but to see him again in broad daylight? It carried the same sense as finding a unicorn at the local petting zoo. It was bizarre.

So, naturally, upon receiving your order, you went and sat squarely in front of him, acting for all the world as if the two of you were childhood friends.

“Hey,” you greeted, and his eyes were on you, narrowed and suspicious. If you didn’t know any better, you could have sworn that his hand twitched downward, likely to grab the bow resting under the table, zipped in a duffel bag between him and the wall. “Train guy, right? It’s me, parkour chick. What a coincidence running into you, man.”

“Are there,” he asked, voice hard and slightly gravelly, “no other available seats?”

Oh, wow. He really was a loner, wasn’t he?

You smiled slightly, raising your palms in a show of innocence.

“No, there are, you’re right. It’s just that I really am surprised to see you again, what with your obvious cryptid nature. You’re like Mothman or something. I was surprised.”

“And now you have seen me,” he replied carefully, and his eyes flickered to the entrance as if looking for someone. _Get lost_ , was what you heard under the decidedly neutral words. _I’m alone for a reason._

And to that, all you could say was, “You’ve seen me, too, yeah? Doing my less-than-legal thing around Hanamura? I’ll admit, I was also wondering about how many authorities you told about me breaking into places for kicks and giggles. You don’t seem very talkative, but, well, shoot me - I’m a curious girl.”

At that, the archer scoffed - it was an almost amused sound, and it almost made you laugh yourself.

“I am preoccupied with matters other than squandering my breath on the frivolous crimes of others - particularly your _climbing_ habits.”

Alright. Here was the thing. You’d taken note of his regal features and the stately way with which he held himself. And, had you been a creature of deeper passion than the spoonful you possessed, you would have been decidedly enamored with the way his pretentious speech lined up with his appearance. This man made no pretenses.

“I like you,” you told him bluntly, with no hint of sarcasm; the furrow between his brows told you he knew it, too. “To the point and indifferent to my frivolous crimes - that’s also a good way to describe my hobbies, by the way.”

Casting your eyes over his guarded face and then down to the surface of the table where his own ramen sat cooling, you let out a quiet hum and decided to have mercy on his isolationist soul. If you were a people-shunner, you’d be suffering in his position, too.

“Anyway, it was nice to run into someone so cool again,” you mused with a shrug, standing up and stretching lazily. “We should do this again. I’d say sometime tomorrow, but I actually think I’m going to devote this week to scoping out Shimada Castle, you know?”

Let it never be said that you were an observant individual, but let it never be said that you were stupid, either. You caught the way the archer’s face hardened, the way his brown eyes went razor-sharp. If he hadn’t been paying attention, he sure was now - but, at the same time, he was also apparently determined to stay in his own lane.

“Do as you must,” he said severely, his tone clearly indicating that you should not. A pause, as if considering, and he continued. “However, if you are in any way inclined to listen, I would advise that you steer clear of the Shimada clan and their affairs.”

“Yeah?” you asked thoughtfully, and half-smiled at his almost-concern. See, the two of you were bonding already. “Well, thanks for the advice. I could say the same to you… but I think I already did.”

He could have easily interpreted your innocuous reply as sarcastic, as he could have with anything you said. He said nothing, though, not even deigning to grace you with more than a cursory glance, and you knew the conversation was over.

So naturally, you left yourself a way to have another one in the future.

“Here.” The pen was out of your pocket and in your hand in seconds, and you were scribbling your name and number onto your napkin. “That’s me - just consider it a customary response to people kind enough to turn a blind eye to my mild criminal streak. You can toss it if you’d like, I don’t really care.”

Then, sliding the napkin over to his side of the table, you picked your own bowl back up and turned to go.

“Have a good one, yeah?” you called over your shoulder. You expected no response, and he gave none, and you could feel his cool eyes on your back as you went.

You beelined for an employee then, because it occurred to you that leaving your information for a handsome stranger – only to saunter off and have a seat six feet away – would more than kill your vibe.

_“Excuse me,”_ you asked the waitress in textbook Japanese, holding up your untouched ramen. _“Is there any way I can take this to go?”_

There.

Vibe saved.

 


	3. sneakers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why can't Shimada Castle be a public space for traceurs like you?

So here’s the thing.

You didn’t necessarily _have_ to be scaling the outer wall of Shimada Castle. You _could_ have spent your nights launching yourself over various public sculptures and vending machines in the streets outside of your apartment. The mysterious archer had certainly thought it a stupid enough idea to tell you that you shouldn’t, when he clearly was loath to waste any more breath than strictly necessary.

And those were all very fine reasons to not be dumb, true, but you also had this to consider: you’d never broken into a yakuza clan’s castle before, and the traditional architecture was going to make for some beautiful vaults.

And, as you looked over the cityscape below, with the cool midnight breeze rustling your hair and stinging your eyes a little bit, and the moon hanging like a perfect spotlight in the sky, you couldn't help but feel that this was the ideal night to be adventurous.

“Alright, let’s go,” you breathed to yourself, pulling yourself fluidly over the edge of the walkway and crouching down in the shadow of one of the massive wooden columns. You were no stranger to nighttime excursions in places you legally shouldn’t have been - so you didn’t have too much trouble scanning the path ahead for guards or tripwire or lasers. You wanted to doubt the presence of the last two, but didn’t over-the-top security measures go hand in hand with shady yakuza business?

_Ah. There you are._

The security guard busily paced the same two-square-foot area just past the entryway of a lovely little gazebo (one that you’d hopefully get to sit in for a second - you loved those things). His left hand clutched his phone, was raised up to his head as he talked; his right hand rested in his pocket. It wasn’t an important call, you could tell - at least, nothing about you. He wouldn’t have had that relaxed posture if he were receiving an update about some punk kid sneaking onto the castle grounds.

Which, you thought, rolling past the man and tucking yourself behind one of the decorative boulders, suited you just fine. More time for you to explore with no worries. You never did like time crunches.

The most stressful little excursions you’d had all involved at least three guards and electrified fences, all told. You could recall one time where you’d been able to scale a wealthy family’s home and entertained yourself by leaping across their pool to their RV from the roof. That was one alarm system you hadn’t checked as well as you should have; your scramble to get out of dodge had left you with a nasty bite from the family’s Doberman.

To this day, the ring of scarred-over toothmarks dotting your forearm still ached the tiniest bit whenever you’d gotten yourself into a bind. A sort of psychosomatic spidey sense in exchange for your love of Dobermans, you figured, was a decent tradeoff.

Case in point: the sudden throbbing beneath your jacket sleeve accompanying the sudden shout of a guard beyond the furthest wall. At this point, you’d found yourself circling the large bell in the veranda overlooking Hanamura, trying to figure out the angle you’d have to run at the adjacent wall in order to tictac onto the bell’s crest without sounding it. A sudden gonging would be a horrible thing for you, but you lived for danger; what could you say?

“Shoot,” was what you could say, and did. The mild exclamation came softly, and you froze on instinct, listening hard. Were they talking about you? The steps into the castle were lit up even brighter than before now, and with the sudden light came the clamoring of guards, shifting gravel and shouting at each other to _find him! He’s returned!_

‘He.’ Well, at the very least, they didn’t mean you - they were looking for a repeat offender. You were practically a saint. You relaxed, marginally, ready to creep out of the premises the other way, but you stopped.

“If they’re not looking for me,” you muttered, “then who else in their right mind would come here on _purpose?”_

You had a tentative theory. Well, you had two. One of them was Ken, your next-door neighbor who you liked to watch Jackie Chan films with from time to time. But that guy was all talk and you suspected his boasts about having scaled the Eiffel Tower on a visit to France were about as true as your boasts about being able to handle spicy food. So maybe not him.

The other theory, on the other hand…

Before the thought could finish forming, two things happened.

One - you peeked out of one of the veranda’s entryway and had to scramble backwards to avoid getting impaled by a nastily-tipped arrow. As it was, the sharp edge grazed the bridge of your nose as it passed; you hissed as it _thunked_ solidly into the wall behind you.

Huh. _Definitely_ not Ken, you mused, wiping blood off your nose. The second occurrence confirmed that once and for all: the man who rolled into the veranda after the arrow was too fleet-footed, too quiet, and too righteously jacked to be Ken.

You blinked. “Mr. _Kyudo-gi?”_

The archer - having reached for another arrow the instant he’d seen another person in the little structure with him - almost relaxed the slightest bit. His eyebrows climbed for a second before he schooled his expression into what seemed to be his default: haughty irritation.

It looked good on him, but you were realizing that most things probably did.

“Don’t shoot me,” you said, just in case he realized that yes, he wanted to do just that.

“You!” he exclaimed in reply, the word sharp and nearly derisive. He wasn’t happy to see you then. “You are a _fool_ to have come here!”

Well, he wasn’t wrong.

“I’m beginning to see that, my guy. Look at this.” You touched your fingers to the gash on your nose and showed him the red that smeared. “I’m bleeding.”

“Worry about your injury _later_ ,” snapped the archer. Then, like a schoolteacher scolding the trouble child: “You should be grateful that you were only grazed.”

“Well, when you put it that way -”

_“Silence!”_ He held up a hand, so you shut up. You didn’t doubt that he was capable of stabbing you with an arrow if you made yourself more obnoxious than you needed to be. Best to go along with the guy who’d been in this particular rodeo before. So you nodded, and watched him notch a slightly different-looking arrow, and you listened to the steadily advancing sound of the guards approaching with… oh, man, were those dogs?

Your scar ached a little bit. Did the Japanese use Dobermans?

_Whizz-thunk._ The archer’s arrow flew, and when it hit, you could hear it echo around the garden. Weird - you could hear the soundwaves bouncing off of every surface, and the strange silence in a couple of choice, person-sized areas.

“They approach from all sides,” said the archer, glancing at you as if to check if you were still keeping up. A significant silence followed, one where you realized you needed to show that you weren’t brain-dead.

“Okay. So don’t stroll out to meet them, right? There should be another way… maybe scaling the outside of these walls?”

“And allow them a clear shot from the ground?” A haughty snort, and what seemed to be a slight eyeroll. Yeesh. The man leveled you a searching gaze; the dogs and their owners were growing closer. You could hear the sound of safeties clicking off, and thinned your lips. You trusted that he knew how to use his bow, but in a gunfight? You had to doubt, just a little.

“Well, it’s not like you’re suggesting we just jump off the edge there, right?”

And there it was. A touch of defiance lighting naturally dark eyes.

“Are you afraid?”

You had no time to be - right then, two of the guards filled the doorway. And between them, a Doberman pinscher.

“Oh, haha,” you laughed shakily. “ _No.”_

And just like that, like it had been rehearsed - which, obviously, it hadn’t, so maybe you and this dude just operated on the same wavelength - you and the archer moved in tandem.

He notched an arrow and sent it flying - straight into one guard’s shoulder, and he immediately went down, convulsing with the electric shocks emanating from the arrowhead. The second guard was down before you could blink - and then there was the dog, snarling and ready to tear into the both of you.

So you grabbed your laced-together spare sneakers from their spot around your neck, and then, without preamble (well, maybe with a _“begone, demon!”_ ), you hurled them like impromptu _bola_ s at the dog’s face. The resulting yelp only made you feel a little bit bad. Alright, maybe a lot bad, but you’d be mad at yourself later.

“Quickly!” hissed the archer. “Over the edge. Try to keep up!”

And with one split-second glance back - at the rest of the guards charging in, at the shoelaces muzzling the dog’s mouth shut, at the bell you never got to climb - you and your newly found partner-in-crime leapt over the custom wooden railing and down to the buildings below.

So, a lot of people were terrified of heights, of falling, of hitting the ground, the whole package. You knew that. You _also_ knew safety rolls like the back of your hand, and you trusted in the physics of rolling enough to almost enjoy the sensation of the frigid air blasting into your face. The concrete roof of one of those generic highrise towers came rushing to meet you both, and immediately you reacted.

Lean forward onto the balls of your feet, take the impact and roll down with it, lowering yourself to the concrete; palms flat and pressed to the ground at an angle, then tuck in the right and get your head down, throwing yourself into a roll, straight down the length of your spine; use the momentum to push yourself from your knee up onto both feet.

Ladies and gents, the classic safety roll. You could have applauded your own performance as you stood and dusted yourself off. Then you glanced over to where the archer was already standing straight up as if he hadn’t jumped a railing and plummeted to a potential death to escape a horde of armed security guards. He didn’t even look winded. The nerve.

Still, he eyed you with something like appraisal, sharp and contemplative. Maybe, just maybe, that was a hint of acceptance - of not approval - coloring his face, but you couldn’t tell just yet.

“Not bad, right?” you prodded lightly, smiling a little bit.

“Your form is crude,” he tossed back, chin raised and posture taut, “but acceptable.”

“Well, you’re just a charmer, aren’t you?”

“And you are insolent and of poor judgment,” he retorted, obviously unwilling to compliment anyone past a single word of almost-praise. “They will be looking for you - if they have not already discovered where you live. The Shimada Clan is not an enemy a simple _meddler_ like you can afford to make.”

“Hey, listen -”

“Go home,” the archer interrupted with an air of finality. He was already half-turned away from you, poised to leave. “Take as many alternate routes as possible. Lock your doors and do not return to Hanamura.” A pause, likely as he realized that you were too much of an idiot to stay _away._

“Do not return for at least a few days,” he amended reluctantly.

You nodded sagely.

“I… thanks,” you said finally. “For not just jetting and leaving me behind you know?”

He scoffed. You shrugged helplessly, smiling with a bit of sheepish gratitude.

“I’m serious. You look all tough and rude, but you seem like a pretty solid guy. I dig it.”

“Leave this place,” he ordered abruptly, as if he hadn’t heard you. He didn’t even deign to give you a final passing glance; it seemed you’d used up all of his nice guy energy for the night. With a quiet grunt and a swish of his long ribbon, he leapt off the edge of the building and was gone, leaving you to your thoughts.

Namely, your thoughts went like this.

_Wow. He just keeps getting cooler._

_I am standing on a thirty-six story building in a light windbreaker and it’s stupid cold up here. I should probably go home._

And then, as you were landing on solid sidewalk after scaling down the various ladders and fire escapes, you had one more thought. And this one had you slapping a hand to your forehead and pouring a metaphorical one out for your wallet’s contents.

_My brand-new and unworn sneakers are probably still tied around that dog’s face. My brand-new, unworn and not cheap sneakers._

The loud and defeated sigh you let out bounced around the quiet street outside your apartment.

Inexplicably, it reminded you of your pretentious archer friend and his sonic arrow.


	4. wh,

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> your medical experience extends to binge-watching house, m.d., but that should count for something, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who’s back! (pitiful kazoo solo)

If you were to pick three things you absolutely could not live without, the list would look something like this:

1) Adventure.

2) Cool sneakers.

3) Sleep.

Right now, you could even argue that sleep was at the  _ top  _ of that list. You didn’t often indulge in over seven hours of rest at a time - things to do, people to see, and all that - but every so often a girl had to treat herself.

You hadn’t even bothered changing into your PJs and getting into bed this time around; your last excursion had involved seeing how long it took to freerun from one side of the city to the other, complete with a GoPro log. Needless to say, you were entirely exhausted: too much to even bother hitting Ken up for a movie marathon.

It wasn’t quite the adventure that the Shimada Castle fiasco had been some time ago, you mused to yourself as you laid curled up on the now-very-comfortable couch. But it was a workout, so you couldn’t complain too much. Vaguely, you wondered if you should have at least toweled off the worst of the sweat before crashing, but that notion slipped away the instant your head hit the couch cushion.

A breath, then two, and you were out like a light for a solid two hours.

Which begs the question: what woke you up? The answer to that was simple and yet something of a surprise.

It was the sound of your window sliding open, and something heavy - something  _ person-sized _ \- thudding onto the carpet. And it had you sitting bolt upright and fumbling for the switchblade you kept on the coffee table, blearily opening your eyes and preparing to duke it out with some burglar.

Then:

“Archer?” you asked incredulously. It couldn’t be anyone else; no one else was that jacked in the shoulders or had that solemn sort of presence. “Hey, one question: did I miss something?”

For his part, the archer pulled himself into a sitting position, arm curled around his stomach, and fixed you with a severe Look.

“I need a first-aid kit,” he demanded right off the bat, his voice strangely taut. “Or even a sewing kit, should you have one.”

It was then that you realized how abnormally dark and slick the fabric of his clothes were, that you recognized the knit between his brows as pain and not irritation. (Well, not entirely irritation.) It was such a bizarre sight - here this guy had set himself up as something more than human, something beyond insult and injury and petty mortal affairs. It threw you for a loop and filled you with a sense of urgency, to see this man in need.

So, “yeah, hold on,” you breathed, nearly vaulting off the couch in your quest to grab the medical kit from under the sink. You nearly tripped over your own feet making it back to the living room and flicking on all the lights as you went; by then, he had migrated to the couch you’d left empty.  _ Probably getting blood all over it _ , you thought. His quiver and bow rested next to him as if he were loath to part with them.

The first-aid kit was laying open at your side the minute you reached the man, and you knelt to get a better look at whatever wound he’d managed to collect. Shoot. What if it was bad, like really bad?

“Alright, this is fine,” you muttered to yourself. “First thing’s first, assess the wound, right?” Then, louder: “Hey, are you still with me?”

Your friend’s head had begun to loll alarmingly against the back of the couch. His eyelids fluttered like the wings of a dying butterfly, sporadic and frail. In the lamplight, you could see that his pupils were dilated. Did he have a concussion aside from whatever injury he’d taken to his abdomen? You weren’t trained for this. This was  _ absolutely  _ not something you did on a daily basis, but you knew that unresponsiveness was a big no-no.

“Hey, uh, Mr.  _ Kyudo-gi _ ?” You didn’t even know what to call him, oh man. “Archer? Buddy? Stay with me, we’ve got to get your shirt off real quick, okay?  _ Hey!  _ Pal! Buckaroo!” Against your better judgment, you reached out and poked him on the cheek a few times. “Robin Hood?”

Finally - though it only had to have been a couple seconds - he stirred, just a little, raised his head weakly, and pinned the wall behind you with a hazy glare.

“My name,” he hissed through mildly gritted teeth, “is  _ Hanzo.” _

Well, what do you know. That was one question answered, you supposed.

“Really? Great! Hanzo, lift your arms for me for a sec so I can get this thing off, okay? Wait, can you even do that?” You shook your head at yourself - of course he wasn’t going to be lucid just because you needed him to be. So you reached over for the switchblade on the coffee table and hoped that Hanzo had a well of forgiveness deep in his heart that you just hadn’t noticed yet.

“Man, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to get a new outfit,” you apologized in advance. Wincing, you took hold of his top and began cutting away at it to reach what you were beginning to realize was a twin set of bullet wounds along his stomach. The blade slid through fine silk and you grimaced all the more, setting it gently aside in a heap of bloodied fabric.

“Alright, now what. Tweezers, right? I’ve gotta get the bullets out…”

Your rushed self-talk was met with the weak flap of a hand from Hanzo.

“’Ve removed them,” he mumbled, as if digging two death pellets out of his own skin was some minor and inconvenient task.

“Uh, cool. Cool, cool.” Memories of watching  _ Royal Pains  _ and  _ House, M.D.  _ cycled through your head at top speed, and you wracked your brain for what was next. Bullet wounds were puncture injuries, right? So ideally, the first step would be to stop the bleeding.

You had your hands full of bundled gauze and were pressing it to the still-oozing wounds. Hanzo hissed, but otherwise made no movement. You weren’t sure if it worried you more than if he’d thrashed around, but figured stoics would be stoics.

With one hand holding the gauze in place and the other rooting around for something to clean the wounds with, you took it upon yourself to talk - both to distract and to occupy both you and Hanzo. You needed to keep calm, and he needed to stay awake. You figured the system worked out.

“I can’t say I’m surprised that you didn’t go to a hospital, Hanzo,” you told him, still testing out his name on your tongue. You honestly hadn’t expected to ever know his name, to be completely honest. Somehow, though, learning it as he was powering through a potentially lethal injury seemed to cheapen the victory.

Still, though.  _ Hanzo  _ was a much better name than Mr.  _ Kyudo-gi. _

“You seem like the illegal vigilante sort, you know?” you continued, tone light and jovial in a way that contrasted the grim set to your face. “Or a hitman, or something. Definitely more than some average archery enthusiast. Makes sense that your options would be limited, but honestly, why come  _ here?” _

A thought occurred to you, and you wrinkled your nose in thought.

“ _ How  _ did you come here, is a better question. Dude, I gave you my name and number, not address. What gives?”

His response, when it came long moments later, was soft and matter-of-fact. It did you good to know he was still listening.

“I have resources,” he rasped. “And you will not talk.”

Which was as good an answer as any, you supposed. You half-smiled ruefully and shrugged, accepting it.

“Well, I guess it checks out.” You leaned forward to examine the state of his wounds and deemed that the bleeding had stopped - which meant that now you had to gently clean away the dried blood and any contaminants. Fun.

With a quick  _ “be right back”  _ in Hanzo’s direction, you set off on a quick trip to retrieve a bucket of lukewarm, soapy water, along with a soft washcloth. In no time you were back in your spot in front of him, and gingerly swiping the wrung-out cloth around the injuries.

“The only thing that worries me more than all of this is the fact that the bleeding stopped so fast. You’ve been dealing this for a while before you stumbled in here, huh? What, were you just gonna dig the bullets out and hope it clotted?” There was no reproof in your words, only mildly concerned curiosity. “Anyway, brace yourself. I know none of this has been pleasant, but the alcohol wipes are probably gonna be the least pleasant. Well, either that or the stitching I might have to do… but don’t worry, I used to do, like… embroidery and junk.”

What ended up happening was you cringing more than Hanzo did every time the alcohol wipes caused him the tiniest flinch of pain - but he handled it like a trooper, the way you suspected he handled everything else.

Of course, at that point, you realized you were going to have to stab him various times with a needle and thread.

“Hey, do you like Advil?” you asked Hanzo, voice pointed so that he understood you weren’t speaking to yourself again. He looked to be on the brink of falling asleep - or unconscious - so you slid your hand into his and said, “Alright. Squeeze my hand once for yes Advil, twice for no.”

There it was, two reluctant squeezes of your hand. And, somehow retaining his usual demanding tone, Hanzo muttered, simply,

“Sake.”

“Whoa, uh, maybe not.” You  _ had  _ some sake stowed in the pantry, sure, but you were pretty sure he shouldn’t take the tipsy route to avoid pain. “Not yet, anyway. Look, let me put it this way: Advil or nothing. I’m gonna stitch you up, so choose wisely.”

A beat of silence, in which you half-worried he’d lapsed into unconsciousness, and he scoffed. A soft noise, barely there, but laced with exactly the sort of irritable long-suffering you’d expect from a guy like him.

“Very well.”

You occupied yourself with clearing the space around you to make room for the next part of your impromptu operation - you’d need elbow room for this, after all. Hanzo dredged up the strength and presence of mind to toss the painkillers in his mouth and take a pull from the glass of water you handed him. He didn’t seem to appreciate having an audience for what he had to think was a show of weakness - to even begin to need ibuprofen was surely a sore spot for him - and so you avoided his gaze until he’d halfway drained the glass.

Now, in hindsight, you were a little proud of how you mostly took the situation in stride. From keeping up a stream of inane chatter while the Advil kicked in to periodically tapping Hanzo’s hand to gauge how put together he was, you hardly missed a beat.

And you weren’t quite the panicky sort, but strangely enough, the part where you felt your hands steady the most was when you broke out your tiny pocket sewing kit and took a sterilized needle to Hanzo’s flesh. In and out, a looping cycle that had him tense and holding back a few choice words, but one that you finished quicker than expected. By the time you tied off the last thread knot, you’d created a somewhat neat set of crisscrossing black lines… Not so bad for a first-timer.

“Okay,” you murmured, squinting down at your handiwork. A quick breath - so wow, that happened - and you laughed a little despite the situation. “Okay, I think you’re out of the red now, Hanzo. Well, not entirely, but you’re not bleeding all over the place, so I’d call it a win.”

Other than a slight tilt of his head on the couch to glance over at you with half-lidded brown eyes, Hanzo offered no immediate response. He just breathed, in and out, slowly, arms sprawled on the back of the sofa like he was just chilling at your place and not recovering from an impromptu stitch-up. Though you weren’t used to seeing him so exhausted, it did you good to see that he was still  _ there _ .

Maybe you were just that charming, that it took a gunshot wound to keep the good-looking ones from vaulting out the door within seconds of speaking to you. Well, at any rate, at least you had company.

_ Concussed _ company, your brain helpfully reminded you. Right.

“Oh, I should probably see to your head wound, too, huh?” Standing quickly, you made another beeline for the kitchen. “I’ll get you an icepack, man. And probably a wet rag, too, huh? That’s quite a bit of congealed blood you have there. Be right back.”

Another thought occurred to you as you crossed the threshold to the kitchen, and it had you slingshotting back.

“And don’t fall asleep! I’ll only be a second, promise.”

Again, no response, and you were half-worried he had dozed off. But, no - a careful look revealed that he was watching you carefully, just enough lucidity in his face to reassure you that he’d heard. 

His hair was falling out of its confines, the ponytail looser than you’d ever had the pleasure of seeing. And, circumstances aside, it really was a pleasure to see - the way his hair dipped lower than usual, uncinched dark locks brushing his neck. This newer, less-rigid side of Hanzo was something you didn’t think you’d mind seeing so much. Minus, of course, the grievous injury.

This time, when you left the room, you were stopped by his voice.

Quiet, and raspy, like scales over stone. A little clumsy, as if this level of communication was not one he often reached. 

Now he had your attention. And the words themselves! You hadn’t thought he had it in him.

“Thank you,” Hanzo said softly, as if somehow he could say it without anyone knowing he had. And you could feel him clam up directly afterwards, a distinct shift in his energy that told you he was trying hard to remain completely unaffected.

He didn’t want acknowledgment, and you didn’t want to spook him.

So, “yeah,” you replied, as if he’d just pointed out that the earth was round. Even if you felt like grinning until your face split open. Even if you kind of wanted to say something bold, like,  _ anytime, sunshine.  _

And as you cleaned and bandaged his head wound, knowing that he would never in his right mind let you just do that, you made sure to keep your own chatter quiet and intermittent - and only about things unrelated to the here and now. 

Maybe he knew that you were trying your best to be polite and to skirt around anything uncomfortable or related to his perceived weakness, too. Yeah, he definitely did.

You knew because when you suggested turning on a podcast or some music under the guise of ‘not being able to sleep,’ rather than ‘to make sure he didn’t fall asleep and die,’ he conceded with a long-suffering “very well.”

It was an unusual dynamic the two of you were shaping up to have, but you were quickly coming to appreciate it. And, as you perched on the armchair, scrolling through your music, you found yourself hoping that he appreciated it, too. 


End file.
